defeated by technology

we have rituals, the philosopher and i.
they are the rituals of connection
the rituals of distance.
and sometimes
there's dis-
connection.

for me there is a
task and a joy.
the morning wake-up call.
he's a professor and a grad student
my philosopher of desire.
a ten o'clock scholar, with a
sex slave as alarm clock.

my master declares
the end of my day.
again a phone call,
to be answered promptly.
from 9 o'clock on
the phone
follows me everywhere.
delay displeases him.

tonight he was displeased.
my ear piece, snug in the
dark of my fanny pack,
was eavesdropping on
other people's salacious
chatter and
turned itself on.
the phone rang.
i pressed send
and heard
nothing.

poor frantic kitten
rummaging for the
guerilla saboteur
wildly pressing
again and again
failing to turn it off
no good at fitting it into place
too distressed to think
finally success
the icon is gone
call master back

and he has slammed the door shut

nothing but this
short and curt
"my phone is off.
leave a message."

he must be very tired.
i tell myself he must be very tired.
last class day before spring break.
papers to get graded before spring break.
a long day.
a long commute.

good night, master.
sleep well, master.
perhaps you will wake up briefly
long enough to turn your phone back on
so the voice of your sex slave can
rouse you in the morning.

and if i were there with you
you'd sleep snug and sound
happy with your kitten by your side
and you'd float up to consciousness
lured by the warmth of my mouth round your cock.